Take the Mic!

Chapter 9 I hate swimming

I'm on lap number three, and my lungs are on fire. Water's gone up my nose twice, and I've got a cramp in both sides. At the finish line waits my instructor, timing my incompetence with a stopwatch. I flop and gasp my way to the end of the lane, like a dying zebra flailing in the jaws of a river crocodile. Trembling with exhaustion, I finally slap my hand on the pool's edge. I could eat about four hamburgers now. I could also murder my so-called instructor. My first swimming lesson with Rob Reynolds is almost over, and I’ve done nothing but swim! He hasn't so much as mentioned our night at Yak Yak's. Not a word about my act, about how to tell jokes, or how this second-rate lifeguard ended up as a stage comic. Nothing. I mean, did this guy slip me a business card at a comedy show for a reason, or is he really that desperate for another swim student?

"Five minutes, twelve seconds."

That's Rob, clicking the stopwatch.

I'm panting so hard, I can barely protest. "Was I…r—really…that…bad?"

Rob laughs. "Naw, I'm just teasing you, kid. You were actually worse than that. It was six minutes and twenty seconds." The jerk shows me the stopwatch.

00:06:20

"Very funny," I grumble, pulling my dying carcass out of the pool.

"Hey, it's funnier than you were at Yak Yak's. And trust me, that ain't saying much."

It’s about time! I'm so relieved to talk about what I came here for, I forget to take offense at his jerk remark.

"I was, too, funny!" I say, now remembering to take offense.

"Did you see me laughing at anything you said on stage?"

"Um, hello! The whole place was laughing!” I shoot back. “I don't know what your problem was. The audience loved me."

"No," says Rob, holding up one finger, "they did not love you. They loved Rosie Wong and Jim Garrett."

"Wait, what? How did you know where I got—"

"Volume 3, right? Best of Rosie Wong? That's where you got all those jokes, right?"

Whoa. I never knew anyone on this planet besides me memorized online joke lists for fun.

Rob continues to grill me. "And as if that wasn’t lame enough, you even told them in order, right down the list. Please don't tell me your entire act is a numbered list of twelve jokes you plagiarized off a single web page."   

"No, it’s not just twelve!” I’m seriously offended now. “I know millions of jokes!"

Rob's grin collapses into a stare. "Forget them all."

"What?"

"Forget every joke you've ever heard. That's the first rule of comedy."

Have you ever been so mad in an argument that the only comeback you can think of is to repeat what the other person just said? That’s me right now. 

“So you want me to just forget everything I've spent the last five years of my life memorizing?!"

“That’s exactly what I want.”

“But I—”

"Kid, you will never make it big in comedy telling other people's jokes. First of all, it's illegal. You can't charge money for a show that's made up of other people's material, cuz they'll sue you. Second, it's just lame. Then you're not even a comedian. You're just a tape recorder.”

"What's a tape recorder?"

"I'll tell you when you're back. Swim another lap." He clicks the stopwatch.

Jerk. I throw myself into the racing lane one more time. I have to stop and tread water five times along the way to catch my breath. Finally back again, I drag my own corpse out of the water for the second time. I'm even deader and madder than before.

 "A tape recorder is like a camera," explains Rob as if I’d never left, "except it just records the audio. Anyway, to go pro in comedy, you have to write your own stuff. No way around it. That means no more copycatting. No more YouTubing. No more lip synching in front of mirrors. Got me?"

I don't even ask how he knows about my mirrors. It's never occurred to me where the comedians I listen to get their jokes from. Including the jerk comedian smirking in front of me. 

"Fine!” I huff. “Where do you get your ideas?"

"Everywhere," says Rob, gesturing around us ponderously, like Yoda explaining about the Force. "Comedy is everywhere you look."  

I stare at him, confused. He points to the diving boards. "See those kids doing backflips into the water?"

"Yeah. And?"

"What if they were jumping into milk?"

I snort chlorine, laughing. 

"Now think," Rob says, chuckling with me. "You've got a hundred 5th grade brats, all splashing around in a giant pool of milk. What do you even call that? Think grocery store."

I laugh even harder when it hits me. "Kid Cereal!"

"Right! And who eats it?"

"Godzilla!"

"Yes!" says Rob. "Now imagine the scene. Two Godzilla cubs are in the living room, playing Legos or something. Now these Legos are as big as cars, right? When suddenly this ad for Kid Cereal comes on the TV. How does the ad go? You've got sixty seconds to write the script. On your mark, get set, go." Rob clicks the stopwatch.

Okay. I close my eyes and think. I see a skyscraper-sized box of Kid Cereal with two bowls, each the size of a swimming pool. I hear the ad playing, the jingly monster music. And then the voice-over.

NARRATOR:  Hey, monsters! Start your morning right with a bowl of Kid Cereal! Nothing beats that bloody, crunchy taste! And it’s packed with protein! Especially if the kids just ate lunch! 

GODZILLA CUB:  Look, mom! If I smush one with the spoon, the milk turns pink!

GODZILLA MOM:  Stop playing with your food and finish your breakfast! We're late for rampage lessons.

BEEP. Rob clicks the stopwatch.

"Time's up. Whadaya got?"

I recite my commercial for him. He actually smiles.

"Not bad. Now take the milk-is-water idea in a dozen new directions. Think of everything you use water for, and put milk in its place."

I'm already laughing. Showering in milk. Milking the lawn. Canoeing over a milkfall. Doing laundry (it’s an underwear milkshake!). Flushing toilets (you don't want to eat that cereal!). 24-hour car wash with milk. That's why it takes 24 hours! They can't milk the cows fast enough! I tell Rob my car wash joke.

"See? Now you're a comedian."

"So I'm good enough to go on stage?"

"I didn't say you were any good. I just said you're a comedian. Now on your own this time. Look around the pool and find something to make fun of.”

I see change rooms. Lifeguard towers. The corkscrew slide. Nothing comes to me. I look up at Rob, but he refuses to let me off the hook. 

“Study each thing and ask yourself, ‘What if…’”

Okay, what else is there? Beach balls. What if...what if they were square? Nah, that’s lame. I see toddlers wearing rubber floaties on their arms. What if...the floaties were made of concrete? They’d be called sinkies. Nah, little kids drowning isn’t cool. I’m about to give up, when my gaze falls on the people sunning themselves on the pool deck. What if...they were sunbathing somewhere else? Like the bottom of the pool! Still wearing sunglasses! Staring at their phones. Too busy playing Candy Crush to even realize they're drowning. I tell Rob.

"Good one!" he says. "In comedy we call that role reversal. Where you take two opposite things and make them switch places."

"Like your cats-and-dogs riff at Yak Yak's!"

"Exactly. Cats wagging their tails and catching frisbees was one half of the reversal. Golden retrievers walking along the tops of fences and hissing at other dogs was the other half. So if sunbathers at the bottom of the pool is one half of the flip, then the other half is..."

He points at me, waiting for me to finish. 

I imagine people swimming along the pool deck, dragging themselves along the concrete on their bellies. 

“Nice,” says Rob again when I tell him. “Now, what else? Look around.”

I watch the kids doing flips off the board again. What if they dove in reverse? Flying up out of the water onto the board, then diving head-first down the ladder onto the concrete. Judges holding up perfect 10’s. The new Olympic sport: Concrete Diving. Everyone comes in dead last!

Rob likes the idea of fatal Olympic diving. “See? And that opens up a whole new bucket of ideas. Silly Olympic sports! Let’s see how many we can rattle off in sixty seconds.” He starts the stopwatch. “Go!”

I’m excited now. “Uh...blindfolded hurdles! That’d be fun to watch.”  

“Yeah, it’s really trippy,” says Rob. “Okay, my turn. Blindfolded karate! Back to you!”

I crack up at the thought of two blindfolded fighters kicking and flailing away at nothing because they can’t even find each other on the mat. 

“Hey, no stopping to laugh!” scolds Rob. “Clock’s ticking, keep going!”

“Oh sorry...uh...javelin swallowing!”

“Tricycle relay.”

“400-meter hand walk!”

“400-meter cake walk.” He’s way faster than I am.

“Underwater volleyball!” I’m getting faster.

“Kangaroo equestrian.”

I snort again, breaking the rule, but I can’t help it. The thought of pompous English riders in their tailored red frocks and knee-high boots sitting nobly in the pouches of kangaroos and leaping them over fences has me in stitches. Rob calls me out again. 

“No laughing, I said! Twenty seconds left! Go!” 

I get back into character. I keep going with the jumping idea. What other events involve jumping? High jump...high jump...what can you do with high jump? Got it!

“Low jump! The smallest jump wins!”

“Three-legged ski jump.” 

“Feather lifting!”

“Women’s cat juggling.”

“Men’s water balloon throw!”

“Men’s desk throw.”  

“Pogo stick marathon!” I’m on a roll now.

“Synchronized tennis.”

“Solo wrestling!”

“Motorcycle pole vault.”

BEEP. Time’s up.

“Alriiiiight!” Rob high fives me, and I smile. “See how one idea leads to another? From underwater sunbathers to motorcycle pole vaulting. No YouTube required. And with that, little man, your first lesson is over. After you swim one more lap. Go.”

BEEP.

This time I don’t even complain. In fact I’m so pumped, I finish it in record time. As I head for the change room, exhausted and happy, Rob hands me another business card. I read the back.:

Your homework for next week’s lesson 

1. Buy a pocket notepad. Carry it with you everywhere you go.

2. Make fun of 5 things a day. 

3. Write it all down, even if it sucks.